


Recovery

by cofax



Category: Farscape
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after the end of The Money-Changer's Tale.  For Fourteenlines, More Joy Day 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fourteenlines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourteenlines/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Money-Changer's Tale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/36048) by [cofax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax). 



Moya's lounging in the warm salt-water seas of a moon on the far side of the Uncharteds from either the Scarrans or the Peacekeepers. Nobody lives here but some scattered clans of amphibious bipeds, who spear fish with coral-tipped spears and haven't figured out fire yet. John figures they'll start levying taxes on one another any day now.

Chiana and D'Argo took a vacation, or so Chiana claimed, and left them on a station with six different casinos and three hotels with zero-g bedrooms. If D'Argo's smart, he'll keep Chiana too busy to hit the tables.

Aeryn trains every day: strength and conditioning; unarmed combat; knives and pistols. Sometimes she brings Danny with her, and John can't really argue the point, although there's nothing a five-year-old could have done to protect himself. That's what parents are for.

Of the three of them, John's the only one who sleeps through the night regularly, and even that's stretching the truth. When the bed is cold, he knows he'll find Aeryn on the terrace, because she's lost a lot of her tolerance for walls of any kind. 

And when Moya begins singing, a soft, wordless harmony that reaches down into the marrow of his bones, they know Danny's gone to sit with her, curled up in a ball in front of Pilot's console. John started leaving blankets and a pillow there, after the second time he found the boy there, shuddering with cold but still more comforted by the great Leviathan's voice than by the touch or presence of either of his parents.

Danny hasn't spoken yet. And even his tears are silent.

John? He cooks. Chicken-fried _pelnat_ steaks; Hynerian noodles and something that might be cheese from one of the Sebacean colony worlds; and once he even tried a pie, although the crust was simultaneously crumbly and gummy, and _snizzak_ is a poor replacement for vanilla. He'll try again, next time he finds a shortening that doesn't smell like animal piss.

It's not enough; he'll never be able to do enough to fix them. But cooking enforces order on the universe, gives him something to do with his hands that involves neither violence nor wormholes, and brings his shrunken and battered family together around the table three times a day. It's still better than the endless howling emptiness from before.


End file.
